Yesterday’s Sun

‘Not the moving-house list,’ Tom corrected her, ‘THE LIST.’ He was stepping slowly towards her with his left hand out in front of him, inspecting an imaginary piece of paper on his upturned palm. He stopped two feet in front of her.

‘You do realize that you’re looking at an empty hand?’

Tom ignored her. ‘Find boyfriend. Tick! Find gallery to exhibit your artwork. Tick! Get married. Tick! Establish select clientele to buy said works of art. Tick! Earn enough to give up your job. Tick!’ Each time he said, ‘Tick!’ Tom was using the index finger on his other hand as an imaginary pen to mark off each accomplishment.

‘And finally?’ asked Holly, already knowing the answer.

Tom moved a step closer. ‘Move to the country and live happily ever after.’

‘Tick,’ whispered Holly just before Tom kissed her.

After an indecent amount of time, Tom took a breath. ‘And I do believe, Mrs Corrigan, that you’ve completed your list a whole six months ahead of schedule.’

‘I do believe you’re right, Mr Corrigan,’ Holly answered smugly.

Perhaps smug was the wrong word. Eternally grateful might be better. Holly had worked hard at her five-year life plan but, in truth, her success at finding the perfect husband and blossoming career had been more luck than management. In fact, she owed it all to a drunken accountant.

When Holly was twenty-five, having left art school with an armful of accolades but no real idea of how she was going to make a living out of her talent, she had found herself juggling countless part-time jobs to make ends meet. The jobs had been accumulated as she worked her way through college and, when she left, she’d carried on with them until they began to consume so much of her day that art became a luxury she couldn’t afford, let alone find the time or energy to work on.

Her epiphany arrived one night in the shape of a middle-aged city worker who staggered drunkenly into the backstreet bar she was working in. Her hero, after several attempts, claimed a seat at the bar and immediately took Holly hostage with a lengthy monologue about his wonderful life and recent promotion in a leading accountancy firm. It wasn’t until the drunk told her about how his promotion was all part of his five-year plan that Holly, the neurotic list maker, started to pay attention. Suddenly realizing how aimless her own life was, she had asked herself why, if this good-for-nothing drunk could succeed, couldn’t she? She went home that night and couldn’t sleep until she had set out on paper the goals she wanted to achieve in the next five years.

Within a year, Holly had a new direction. She had traded in her collection of part-time jobs for one full-time job in a television studio, working behind the scenes on production and finally putting her talents to good use. It had also meant that she had enough spare time to develop her artwork and earn occasional commissions through contacts with a local art gallery.

Next on her list was her love life. That wasn’t supposed to happen until year three, but Tom arrived ahead of schedule. He had been visiting the TV studio for a job interview, and left a few hours later not only with a new job but with a new girlfriend too.

Holly had spotted him wandering around the props section, obviously lost. He had emerged from the interview on a high, having being offered a job as a special correspondent on environmental issues, but what started out as a snooping expedition around the studio quickly turned into an endless journey through a maze.

Tom Corrigan wasn’t exactly what Holly had in mind for husband material. On the face of it, they couldn’t have been more different. There was the obvious contrast in their looks. Her pale, mousey complexion was even more pronounced in comparison to Tom’s tall, dark, handsome looks. There were other fundamental differences too. She was organized, he was not. She prepared for and expected failure; Tom saw every setback as an opportunity. She admitted when she needed help; Tom, the man who had just been given the opportun­ity to travel the country, wasn’t about to admit any time soon that he couldn’t even find his way out of the studio. After bumping into Holly on that fateful tour of the studio, he neglected to mention that he was lost and offered to hang around and help her until she was finished for the day, at which point he would escort her off the premises and take her to dinner.

‘I can see the cogs turning,’ Tom warned her, drawing her out of her reverie. ‘Starting the next five-year plan already?’

‘I’m quite happy working my way through my current lists, thank you,’ replied Holly. ‘The unpacking, the re­decorating, my new studio, not to mention the new commission for Mrs Bronson.’

‘Quite happy?’ Tom asked her with mock surprise.

Holly smiled. ‘Very happy. Quite possibly very, very happy.’

‘Quite possibly?’ he said, raising a mischievous eyebrow.

‘Give it up already,’ Holly scolded. ‘Are we going to stand here all day in the hall arguing about the scale of my happiness, or are we going to make use of some of the other rooms?’

‘What a good idea. How about I get the champagne and meet you in the bedroom in precisely two minutes?’

‘Sounds like a plan to me,’ answered Holly, but Tom was already heading back to the kitchen.

The next morning, Tom and Holly were as reluctant to leave their bed as they had been eager to jump into it the night before. Tom was on leave from work for two weeks, so there was no alarm clock demanding their attention, no fixed routine to comply with, nothing to do but finish their unpacking and explore their new surroundings. They just had to get out of bed first.

The bed faced the large picture window, which looked out onto a rambling garden bordered by a rambling orchard and, beyond that, the rambling English country­side. It was a bright spring morning and the sun was doing its best to rouse the new incumbents of the gatehouse out of their deep sleep. The insistent sunshine played patterns across the white linen curtains, fluttered down the pale blue walls, skipped across the polished wooden floor and crept stealthily across Holly’s sleeping face, tickling her into wakefulness.

Her first thoughts quickly formed into a list of all the things that needed to be done, urgent actions vying for attention. Holly silenced those thoughts, mentally folding over the pages of her newly formed list. They could wait. She wanted to savour at least one day with her husband in their new home with no one else’s needs to satisfy except their own. Time at home with Tom was going to be at a premium in the coming months.

No sooner had they closed the deal on the gatehouse, a house which they had chosen specifically because it was within commuting distance of London, than Tom was offered a new job. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse, not least because the studio was going through a painful reorganization and he was one of the lucky ones. At least he was keeping his job, although he would now be expected to do more work front of camera, covering politics as well as environmental issues, and he could also expect to be sent further afield. The further afield clause in his contract arrived sooner than expected and his first assignment was a six-week stint in Belgium, making his commute a little longer than either of them had anticipated.

‘Are you awake?’ Tom asked.

‘Hmmm,’ answered Holly, turning towards him so that they were nose to nose.

‘Whoa, morning breath!’ teased Tom.

‘You can talk, you smell like a man.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I hadn’t finished,’ Holly corrected him. ‘You smell like a man who’s spent the night licking the carpet of one of those really old pubs where your shoes stick to the floor. In fact, I can see you’ve still got half the carpet coated on your tongue.’

‘So you don’t want a kiss then?’

‘Are you sure you can cope with my morning breath?’ challenged Holly. She deliberately breathed out each word.

‘I’m willing to take the chance if you don’t mind risking a mouthful of old pub carpet.’ Tom poked his tongue out and licked the tip of Holly’s nose.

‘I’ve had worse things in my mouth.’

‘Now there’s a challenge,’ grinned Tom.

‘Not only do you have a tongue that smells like the gutter, you’ve got a mind that’s already there.’

Tom glided his body over towards Holly, sliding his hand across her torso and then slipping his legs between hers. It was a well-rehearsed and familiar manoeuvre that placed him over her and left Holly breathless.

‘I can talk dirty, if you want me to,’ Tom offered.

Holly wrapped her arms around his neck before letting her fingers trail down his spine. Hidden beneath the shadow of Tom’s body, Holly could only sense the dappling of morning light as it played across his back.

‘How dirty?’

‘Well . . .’ Tom said. He drew out the word with a teasing hiss, then he smiled, or was it a smirk? ‘I’m not talking five-year plans here.’

‘I should hope not,’ replied Holly. She was watching the curves of his mouth intently, the dampness of his lips, the glimpse of his tongue. She pushed her body towards him, encouraging him on.

‘Oh, no,’ Tom said, ignoring her blatant desire. ‘I’m not even talking seven years.’ He kissed her nose. ‘Not even ten.’

Holly tangled her fingers in the luxurious waves of his hair. She reached up to kiss him but he moved his head away. He hadn’t finished teasing her yet.

‘I might be talking twenty years here. Hell, no, I’m perverted enough to even count on forty.’

‘You have a sick mind, Tom Corrigan,’ agreed Holly. Her body was tingling with anticipation and she writhed beneath him. She could tease too.

‘I want a plan that takes us right up to our dotage, in this house, surrounded by our family, our children, our children’s children and maybe even our children’s children’s children.’